


Shalom Rav!

by crossingwinter



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Big Game Hunting, Deepthroating, F/M, In which Rey bags the Rabbi, Rabbi Kink, Sukkah Suck-off, The Least Sexy Of All Kinks Unless You Are Me And Are Confused By Everything, also me: oh no tefillin, kink of kinks, me: rabbi kink is not sexy, the only kosher hunting is rabbi-hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 05:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: In which Rey comes to terms realizing that she is attracted to the rabbi.





	Shalom Rav!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeeno2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/gifts).

> happy birthday jeeno you owe me $10.
> 
> thank you shepard for beta'ing <3

“Come on—Adam,  _ no _ pulling Becca’s hair. Stop it.” 

The hallway down to t’filah is loud, and Rey loves the sound of it. Happy children—too young to be uncomfortable with having to spend their Sunday mornings at _Hebrew School _of all places. She loves the Fifth Graders. She’s glad that she teaches Fifth Graders. She hears _horror _stories from Finn about the Sixth Graders, who are starting to realize that Hebrew School is not as cool as they’d been led to believe growing up, and that even the promise of a bar or bat mitzvah party isn’t going to make up for the fact that they won’t be able to hang out with their friends and gain middle school social cred on Tuesday afternoons and Sunday mornings.

Fifth graders, though. They don’t care about all that just yet.

They’re happy, they’re excited about the words they had just learned in their Hebrew class and this particular class had chatted about it happily all through Rey’s Tiny Torah Study, where they’d all drawn pictures together of the week’s Parshah.

They make their way into the sanctuary, filing into neat little lines—all well practiced. Adam is not sitting next to or behind Becca, thank god.  _ He’s got a crush,  _ Poe had said, rolling his eyes at Rey, and Rey couldn’t help but think to agree. She hadn’t gotten crushes until college. At that age, she’d had to worry too much about things like food, and whether or not Unkar Plutt was actually going to pick her up after school or if she’d be waiting in the principal’s office for hours on end. 

“Sheket b’vakashah,” Rey calls, because they’re being a little too loud. They don’t need to be silent by any means, but it would be better if Jacob L. was not talking about the Cubs  _ quite _ that loudly in t’filah. Even if they haven’t started. She wants to show Finn that her students are better behaved than his, even if they are younger.

_ Where _ is Rabbi Geno? It’s not like him to run late. Usually he’s sitting there, already noodling on his guitar, lai-dai-dai-ing some sort of niggun to ease the kids into t’filah mode. She’d seen him that morning at arrival, giving high fives to the third graders.

The door at the back of the sanctuary opens and Rey goes still.

Rabbi Solo is walking forward, carrying Rabbi Geno’s guitar. He’s walking quickly in a way that reminds Rey oddly of a bulldog, only much, much taller. His long legs bring him to the bimah faster than Rey can even process what Rabbi Solo is even  _ doing _ here. He does  _ not _ do Hebrew School things. 

But he gets up on the bimah, adjusts Rabbi Geno’s strap since Rabbi Geno has a shorter torso than Rabbi Solo does, and then strums a chord on the guitar.

The children go quiet. They’re just as confused as Rey is. And also probably a little scared. There are horror stories that ripple down from seventh and eighth grade about Rabbi Solo. You  _ don’t _ want to get paired with him for your bar or bat mitzvah prep. Rabbi Geno makes you smile and jokes; Rabbi Solo is for the  _ grown ups _ .

But there’s Rabbi Solo, strumming a guitar at the front of the sanctuary during t’filah.

And then he opens his mouth.

-

Rabbi Solo started at Congregation Etz Chaim a year before Rey started teaching Hebrew School. 

She hadn’t  _ wanted _ to teach Hebrew School at the time. But it was good cash, and it was sure not fucking fair that she wasn’t getting paid for her work-study internship that was required for her social work degree. And so here she was, back in Hebrew School, pretty much the only consistent thing she had had growing up. 

(When she’d been put in the foster system, the only thing they’d known about her background came from the little magen david around her neck. For some reason, her parents had never sold it to cover their habit, even though it was very clearly made of silver and would have fetched a good price. As an adult, she wondered if it was one step too far even for a pair who would ultimately abandon their own daughter to sell this symbol of a  _ we survived _ . All of her foster families had been more than happy to send her to Hebrew School twice a week if it meant she was off their plate for a few hours.)

But there she was, teaching Hebrew School on Sundays when she’d rather be asleep and on Tuesday nights after class when she’d rather be on her couch staring at her TV and only really intaking thirty seven percent of what she was seeing there. 

“He’s a good rabbi,” Poe had told her over dinner after the lessons one Tuesday. “But he’s...not good with kids. He thinks they’re like little adults or something and that’s not how that works.” 

Rabbi Ackbar had minimized his participation in the religious school, which meant he did some (but not all) of the b’nei mitzvah prep, and since Rey worked with students out of his age range, they didn’t interact much. Idly, she is aware that he’s Rabbi Solo instead of Rabbi Ben even to the kids, but Rabbi Geno is Rabbi Geno and not Rabbi Namit.

She liked his d’vars during High Holy Days the year before. He was clearly the sort of Rabbi who wasn’t afraid to put an intellectual flex in his sermons, quoting Rashi, Maimonedes, Voltaire, Foucault, and Sun Yat-Sen all in one thirty minute speech. 

She’d overheard some of the evening classes he taught ( _ Intermediate Talmud, Intermediate Aramaic, Analysis of Torah Trope Variations by Ashkenazi Origin _ ) and had gotten simultaneously bored out of her mind and extremely curious. 

There’s something impressive about him. He’s tall, and broad, and carries himself like a man who could definitely cite any pasuk he wanted without even having to check if he was right. He’s probably the sort of person who can argue a point or counter-point for hours on end, digging into every intellectual corner on the planet just for the exercise of the argument. 

She had  _ not _ heard him play guitar and sing Ameh Yisrael Chai and—well—

Nothing’s the same.

-

There is nothing remotely sexy about a guitar-playing rabbi.

Rey knows this.

Geno Namit, though a sweet man, is not remotely attractive as he plays variations upon variations of  _ Oseh Shalom _ . They make you feel like they’re a teenaged camp-counselor, but you are now old enough not to be in awe or enamored of teenaged camp-counselors. 

There is also something marginally brain-breaking about seeing Rabbi Solo playing a guitar. He’s austere, he’s proud, he is ten times smarter than you and knows it. And yet there he is in his kippah and Rabbi Geno’s guitar with its hokey magen-david-and-music-note guitar strap.

She’s heard him sing before. But there’s a difference between hearing him singing the congregation parts of  _ Avinu Malkeinu _ into the microphone on Yom Kippur and this. She doesn’t know  _ why _ because it’s still his voice, and he’s still davening. But it is. It is. 

The kids join in—a little shyer than they usually are. Whenever Rabbi Geno plays this tune, they’re singing at the top of their lungs, but right now, the fives and sixes are looking between one another as Rabbi Solo leads them into services.

_ They’re little adults, not kids _ . Rey thinks that Poe’s assessment of him had been right. He’s not doing the usual fun chatting transitions that Rabbi Geno does. He doesn’t smile, or play along. He just dives from one prayer into the next. 

And she doesn’t know  _ why _ but she’s riveted. Just riveted. 

There’s literally nothing attractive about a Rabbi playing a guitar. There’s barely anything attractive about a Rabbi doing  _ anything _ at all, but this is definitely the least attractive of the least attractive, the least attractive in the  _ I’m entertaining the concept that this might be attractive to someone only for the purposes of debate over whitefish salad and bagels. _ But she can’t look away. 

There’s something hypnotic about watching him try to smile his way through various prayers, looking as though he hasn’t used those muscles in that way for at least twelve years. There’s something soothing about hearing him arpeggiate on the guitar as he guides the kids through their tsiddurs, saying words clearly in English before saying the spoken prayers crisply and cleanly in Hebrew—obviously more slowly than he usually does so that the fives and sixes can mumble along with him. His hair keeps falling into his face and he keeps trying to tuck it behind his ears, but it never stays there for very long. 

And somehow, even as he’s transitioning into the version of Adon Olam that Rey can’t stand because it always gets stuck in her head, she just wants to brush it back out of his face. She wonders how soft his hair is, wonders what it would feel like against her skin.

_ No _ , she thinks firmly as she gets to her feet and starts guiding the fives out of the sanctuary and into the main hall where their parents are waiting for them.

It’s chaotic, and the kids are all talking and giggling with one another, speaking in hushed voices for the most part—except for Adam who says loudly, “Rabbi Solo is a better guitar player than Rabbi Geno,” and two of his friends protest loyally that Rabbi Geno is  _ way _ better than Rabbi Solo.

“Kids,” Rey intones but they’re already out of earshot and Adam’s mother has taken his hand and is leading him out into the shul’s parking lot as he waves goodbye.

That’s when Rey realizes that Rabbi Solo is standing not too far from her, clearly unsure—or perhaps merely unpracticed—in how to wade through a sea of children. He’s got the guitar in his hand and his face is—different. Just different now than it ever was before.

Before, he was Rabbi Solo, too smart for his own good, sort of an asshole if you talked for him for too long because he assumed he knew more than you. (Which, to be fair, he probably  _ does _ know more than Rey, but he doesn’t have to act like it. That’s just rude.) But now—well—

He looks like he’s trapped by ten-year-olds.

So Rey weaves her way through them, waving goodbye to a few more and offers him her hand. “This way,” she teases. 

It takes him a moment to process what she’s offering. His eyes are on her outstretched hand, his face a blank sort of confused. Then he gives her a wry smile that’s more than a little devastating. He’s not supposed to have a devastating smile. He’s supposed to have a self-satisfied smile. Or at least a benign-leader-of-the-community smile. Not a...  _ I just sang through t’filah with a fucking guitar for your Hebrew School class and now my smile got sexy  _ smile. 

And then he goes and takes her hand.

And Rey feels hot and cold, feels herself flush, feels herself forget for just long enough what she’s offered that’s got him taking her hand.

And then a kid bumps into her in an effort to get to his dad and Rey turns sharply, tugging Rabbi Solo hard and leading him through the pack of kids towards the beit midrash.

“Thanks,” he says, “I think the meshiach would have come before I made it through those kids.” He’s clearly trying to joke and Rey tries to smile at him, but of course, she’s suddenly too aware of just how much she shows her teeth when she smiles and oh no she should have let go of his hand already why hasn’t she let go of his hand?

“Miriam leading the Israelites through the Red Sea.”

She did not say that.

She did not just say that.

Except that she did just say that.

And has promptly turned as red as the Red Sea. 

“Sea of Reeds,” she corrects herself quickly.

Which only makes it worse. 

She needs to stop talking. Like right now. And also let go of his hand because she  _ still _ hasn’t let go of his hand.

He also hasn’t let go of hers.

“Mi chamocha—” he begins before stopping short and going positively purple and good lord, he was—he wasn’t—was he flirting with her?

Rabbis aren’t supposed to flirt. Rabbis are supposed to debate you until it’s time for whiskey and then debate you some more until their ride gets there and takes them home. 

“Where was Rabbi Geno today?” Rey blurts out because he keeps getting redder. His ears look like they’re on fire.

“He sprained his ankle pretty badly this morning,” Rabbi Solo says. He lets go of her hand. She misses it. “So I told him I’d cover t’filah. I used to songlead.” It sounds like he’s trying to brag but, not having gotten the memo that Rey seems to have forgotten that anything that makes you feel like you’re back at Jewish Summer Camp is not remotely sexy, sounds a little bit embarrassed to even be mentioning it.

“Do you play a lot?” she asks him.

He glances at the guitar. “Not much anymore,” he tells her, sounding almost surprised now. “I wasn’t really expecting for it all to come back that fast.”

“Your fingers remembered what to do,” Rey says and suddenly,  _ vividly _ —they’re standing next to the beit midrash  _ why _ is she even  _ thinking  _ this?—she imagines his fingers knowing what to do, slipping between her thighs as she sighs into his neck and shifts to try and get her hips closer to him.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding completely winded. “Yeah, they did.”

And somehow she knows from the way he’s staring at her—she  _ knows _ —that his mind had gone exactly where hers had just now.

“I—” he starts to say but—

“Rey! You coming?”

Finn’s standing there in his coat, his messenger bag already slung over his shoulder. 

“I won’t keep you,” Rabbi Solo says at once, and Rey swallows.  _ But I want you too. _

Oh lord, she needs to get away from here, she has a  _ thing _ for a  _ rabbi _ .

-

She hopes it will go away, that it was just a moment of weakness. Extreme weakness. Extremely confused weakness.

It doesn’t go away.

She sees Rabbi Solo on Tuesday night through the open door to his office as she’s preparing to meet with Rabbi Geno about an idea for her Tiny Torah Study. Rabbi Geno’s foot is better now. Several days at home with his three cats and without walking have left him no less mobile than he had been the last time she’d seen him.

Rabbi Solo is typing fervently on his computer as she waits outside the rabbinical offices while Rabbi Geno is finishing bar mitzvah tutoring. The poor kid’s voice is cracking as boys’ voices do in the prime of puberty. Rey sits there, her foot jiggling, trying to ignore the way she wants Rabbi Solo to look up at her from his laptop. She doesn’t need him to look up from his laptop. He can go on doing whatever rabbinic task he has on his laptop. She doesn’t need to see his eyes.

The boy finishes up his bar mitzvah prep and Rabbi Geno appears at the door, waving him off. “Rey, come in,” he says with a jovial smile and that’s the moment that Rabbi Solo looks up, his dark eyes burning into her like Moses’ eyes on God’s backside.

Rey’s mouth goes dry.

She gives him a small smile before following Rabbi Geno into his office.

It’s not fair that she can barely keep her thoughts straight as she talks with Rabbi Geno. Her mind is on the rabbi across the hall, not with her fives and how to make them actually remember what they’re supposed to be learning in her class.

But Rabbi Geno gives her a smile, tells her she sounds prepared—though she couldn’t honestly tell anyone what she actually said in their meeting—and when she gets to her feet and steps out of the office, Rabbi Solo is gone.

She’s almost relieved.

Except she’s not.

She’s feeling hot and flushed and she’d—

Well, she doesn’t know what she wanted. 

Because every time she thinks about how she sort of wants him to look at her, all she can do is remember the time he did motzi at an oneg after everyone had already started having their—kosher—pigs in blankets and had given everyone judging looks that they hadn’t remembered to wait for motzi and kiddush. Rey remembers the mild shame of mumbling the words to the prayers around her hot dog while she’d finished chewing and then washing it down with some Kedem before deciding to hide from him for the rest of the night because she was  _ sure _ he was taking stock of those who had already started eating.

Does he remember that? Does he remember that she’d had her pig in a blanket before he’d said motzi? Does he judge her still for it? Or did he let it go because he called her Miriam?

She walks right into him as she’s leaving the office and lets out a strangled squeak of surprise.

She hadn’t expected him to be there, and certainly hadn’t expected him to be bouncy—the way he seems bouncy. Like his muscles are taut. Rabbis don’t have taut muscles. Rabbis have no muscles at all. But he’s tall and muscular and when she looks up at him he looks just as winded as her and oh—that’s his hand on her arm, steadying her.

“Sorry,” he is saying. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I wasn’t either,” Rey says breathily. 

He steps aside and Rey walks past him, tucking her hair behind her ear. When she reaches the corner, she glances back and sees him watching her. He goes bright red and she half expects him to run away, but instead he says “Can I—” he clears his throat awkwardly, “get your thoughts on something?” 

“Sure,” she replies and good lord, why does she still sound so breathy? She makes her way back down the hallway and follows him into his office. 

Rabbi Solo’s office is very different from Rabbi Geno’s. Rabbi Geno’s is colorful: there are pictures of his cats, and his family, and that time he met an actor who played Solicitor Which at a con. In Rabbi Solo’s there are books everywhere—treatises that look like they’d be mindnumbing, history books of Jewish populations in various countries, a  _ nice _ set of the Talmud, and two whole shelves devoted to Talmudic commentary and analysis. 

“You can’t have read all of this,” Rey blurts out.

Rabbi Solo gives her a wry, crooked smile. “I tend to read what books I have.”

“Even the gifts that people give that you don’t actually want to read?”

“I’m a quick read.”

Rey blinks at him. That shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Imagining him, lying on the couch in the corner after a long day of rabbi-ing, decompressing by reading  _ Guide to the Perplexed  _ was perplexing to say the least.

“What was it you wanted to ask me about?” She needs to stop thinking about him reading the Rambam. 

“Right,” he says and it sounds like he’s trying to force himself to sound businesslike. “I’m working on my sermon for Rosh Hashanah—”

“Cutting it close, aren’t you?” They’re late this year, but the holiday is next week.

He gives her that wry smile again. “Can’t quite nail it. So I was thinking of changing tacks. Especially given the recent election, I was thinking about quoting Song of Songs—Lechem Dodi ani l’dodi—to talk about God’s relationship with—” but he cuts himself off when he sees the way that Rey’s eyebrows have risen up her forehead—risen because there’s no way he  _ hadn’t _ just heard the words coming out of his mouth. Was he still flirting with her? But he’s not blushing, and he’s trying to sound businesslike. 

“Yes?” he prods.

“Sorry, but you want to quote Song of Songs in your sermon?” Rey asks. 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s  _ Song of Songs _ ,” she replies.

And Rabbi Solo rolls his eyes. “There’s plenty in Song of Songs that’s  _ not _ what you’re thinking about and I don’t see why we can’t talk about what we should be prepared to give in the next year during Rosh Hashanah. Rashi said—”

“Sure, Rashi said this or that, but we  _ all _ know what Solomon was thinking when he wrote it.”

Rabbi Solo watches her closely. “You think it’s inappropriate.”

“I think it’s a matter of what you do with it, but you’re going to have a hard time convincing people that the main takeaway of the Song of Songs is anything short of—” she can’t think of a word that’s not  _ fucking _ which she refuses to say in a Rabbi’s office. That’s one step too far.

He pinkens and that’s enough.

“Right,” he says. “Ok. Well—thanks.”

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, that’s what I wanted to know though. I wanted to ask if you thought it was going to be inappropriate or—I don’t know. Might rub people differently from how I hope it will.”

Rey swallows and feels her cheeks heat at that innuendo.  _ Stop it. Please please please stop it. _

“Happy to help,” she replies a little breathily, her palms sweaty.

“Sure thing,” he says, equally breathy. It’s bizarre, hearing his voice breathy.

-

The sermon is good. He ends up quoting Rashi to make his point rather than the Song of Songs directly, which Rey thinks was the right call. 

Yes, it’s a good sermon. He delivers it well, towering over the bimah and looking out into the congregation. Maybe she’s imagining it—she  _ refuses _ to think it’s wishful thinking—but she gets the sense that his eyes land on her more than they do other people. 

-

She next sees him during Hebrew School that Sunday. The head of the Hebrew School has decided that the fives and sixes had probably had enough religious learning from being dragged to High Holy Days so they spend the whole morning working on decorating the sukkah rather than preparing for Yom Kippur. They’ve got dried leaves and are making paper flower chains, macaroni to glue and paint in patterns, and a whole bale of hay to thatch the top with.

Rey has stepped away from the sukkah to get a drink of water when she hears a series of sneezes so intense she’s convinced whoever’s sneezing might actually be having a heart attack. Which is how she finds Rabbi Solo, leaning against the wall, panting, his face bright red, his eyes watering, as he blows his nose, again and again, into a very tired looking handkerchief.

“You ok?” Rey asks him.

“Hay,” he mutters. “I’m allergic.”

“Oh no,” Rey takes a step away from him, but he shakes his head, that crooked smile playing at his lips. 

“It’s in the air, don’t worry about it.”

“Will it get better?”

“I have some antihistamines at home. Forgot to bring them today.”

“Do you want me to see if we have any in the first aid kit?” There has got to be some Benadryl or something here. 

“No need,” he grimaces. “Trust me—I’ve already checked.”

“I’m surprised we don’t have any,” Rey frowns. The sheer volume of parents who might come down hard on the Hebrew School over something like this was very high.

“We’ll restock. I spoke with the office manager,” Rabbi Solo says before sneezing again. 

“You should go home,” Rey says. “If it’s affecting you this much.”

He gives her a wry smile. “I’m dreading sleeping in it.”

Rey’s eyes widen. “You’re not going to sleep in the Sukkah, are you?”

“I live in an apartment building. This is the—”

“Yes, but you’re supposed to take care of your body. Surely there’s a clause of like...you don’t have to sleep in the sukkah if you’re allergic like how you can eat on Yom Kippur if you’re sick.”

The way he smiles at her is so soft, and is sort of ruined by him sneezing again. “Yeah, but I want to sleep in the sukkah. I like sleeping in the sukkah.”

“Even when the sukkah makes you feel sick?”

“It’s nice to be outside,” he shrugs. “Thanks, though. For your concern. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” Rey says. 

That crooked smile of his—why had she started noticing it? Why did it make her want to jump him?

“You still don’t think I should do it.”

“What happens if you stop being able to breathe in your sleep and die in the middle of the night.”

And Rabbi Solo laughs, which turns into another sneeze. “That’s extreme.”

“I’m just saying,” Rey says, holding up her hands, and Rabbi Solo grins at her.

“Well, maybe someone should join me in the sukkah. To keep me from dying.”

Her mouth goes dry. 

Ok, there’s no way she’s making this up anymore. That was a virtual marriage proposal from a rabbi. Probably. There’s probably something in the Talmud about how if you sleep in a sukkah with an unwed woman you’re basically married, right? Rabbi Solo would probably know.

“I’ll see if I can find someone interested,” Rey says, fully aware that she’s been quiet for too long.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

-

Rabbi Geno gives the Kol Nidre sermon, Rabbi Ackbar the Yom Kippur one. They aren’t as good as Rabbi Solo’s. Or maybe it’s that their delivery isn’t as gripping. She’s not sure.

-

She brings her pajamas and a sleeping bag with her to the Sukkot barbecue and expects that she won’t be the only one sleeping over in the sukkah with Rabbi Solo.

But as the evening progresses, families disperse and she finds herself completely alone under the stars with him.

“Are you really here because you’re afraid I might die?” Rabbi Solo asks her as they clamber into their sleeping bags.

“Also because you invited me,” Rey says. She might as well admit it, right? That this crush she’s been trying  _ so _ hard not to actually have for the past month is coming to a head.

He doesn’t reply right away. “Thanks,” he says softly and she looks at him. There’s lamplight from the shul’s walkway and it illuminates his face so that Rey can see how guarded he looks; how vulnerable. 

Which is why it surprises her when he asks, almost brutally, “I’m not misreading this, am I? I’m not making myself look like a total fool because I’m thinking you might like me and it’s getting to my head, right?”

“No,” Rey says quietly. “No, you’re not misreading this.”

And his face visibly relaxes. He lets out a long, slow breath and sort of wiggles his sleeping bag closer to hers. She wiggles hers towards him too.

“So,” he says when they’re only inches apart. “Tell me more about yourself.”

And she does.

-

She doesn’t wake to the sound of Ben’s allergy wheezing. She wakes to the sound of birdcalls in the grey predawn of a cloudy morning. 

Ben isn’t lying in the sleeping bag next to her. He’s standing at the edge of the sukkah, winding leather around his forearm. She watches quietly as he pulls out a book and begins to read, rocking back and forth, his mouths ghosting over each of the words on the page. 

It feels like she’s intruding. She’s never worn tefillin before. She knows there are some women who have, who do, but she’s never felt the need to. And it’s not like she’s surprised that Ben—a Rabbi—would put on tefillin in the morning. But it’s one thing to think about it and another thing to see the way the leather curves around his arm, around his head as he davens. 

She knew he was muscular—she remembers walking into his chest—but this is the first time she’s seeing his forearms, much less his forearms bound in leather.

_ He’s  _ praying _ ,  _ she berates herself. 

_ And if you marry him, this is what you’ll wake up to every morning from now on. _

_ We literally just talked last night. That doesn’t mean marriage. _

Except somewhere deep down she knows that this is the man she’s going to marry. Him in all his Song-of-Songs-quoting, guitar-playing, tefillin-wrapping glory. 

She swallows and climbs slowly out of the sleeping bag. Her breath is going to be terrible, but she’s not sure she cares. She’s going to kiss him when he’s done. Because she wants to, because they’ve spent a lovely night together, because he’s truly terrible at flirting, and she should probably take the reins moving forward.

He closes his book and tucks it into his bag, then begins to unwind the leather. She can see a slight discoloration on his forearm from the wrappings—not too much, but still there. She runs her hand across it and gives him a soft smile.

He gives her one back, and he doesn’t seem at all surprised when she steps closer and pulls his lips down to hers. And yeah, his breath ain’t great right now, but she’ll get used to it as she deepens the kiss, her tongue slipping between his lips, her arms tightening around his neck. He’s warm and sturdy and his hands are trembling as they flit up and down her sides, as though unsure of where they want to be before settling on the bold and cupping her ass. 

“Good morning,” he whispers into her lips.

“Good morning,” she replies and it’s so sweet—so perfectly and pristinely sweet.

So how it gets from kisses to Ben with his pajama pants around his ankles, sitting in one of the chairs and groaning as Rey licks her way down his dick—she’s not entirely sure. There had been her hands on his chest, his hands cupping her breasts, his kiss getting deeper and deeper, her breath getting shorter and then, the unmistakable beginnings of a bulge between them.

And yes, Rey could have taken a step back, could have let them both cool down, could have taken it slow and steady. She could have acted her age, could have taken into account that they were in Ben’s place of work right now.

Or she could be sucking off Rabbi Benjamin C. Solo in the sukkah behind the shul, his hands in her hair, twitching at moments towards her face. He is rock hard, but his skin is so soft and he keeps starting to say things like “You really don’t have to—” and “I—Oh—Rey this is—” before she swirls her tongue around his tip, cups his balls, slips a finger down beneath his scrotum to try and rub at his perineum and he loses all semblance of cogent thought.

There’s something incredible about reducing this man—who probably speaks about eight languages—to inarticulate grunts and moans as he dribbles salty excitement between her lips. 

He only seems to be able to say her name. It’s the one word that remains in his head, moaned over and over and over again as she relaxes her throat and takes him down as deep as he’ll go, nuzzling into the wiry dark hairs at the base of his cock. The heady scent of him is perfect—sweat and musk and him, and he moans and his fingers tighten in her hair, pulling it lightly. 

“Rey, I’m going to—I’m—” and she hums against him and pulls back just enough so his tip is back in her mouth, so she can taste him fall apart, so she can feel him twitching on her tongue as he lifts his hips up towards her mouth before sinking, completely boneless, back on the picnic chair.

She swallows him down and pulls back slightly, and he shifts forward at once to tug his pants back up his legs. His eyes lock with hers and there’s a brightness to them she’s never seen there before, then he’s pulling her face back to his, easing her up so that she’s sitting on his lap, his hands holding her rear tight as her hair falls around them.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers. “I feel like I made you up.”

“I’m here,” she replies, and one of his hands inches lower and lower to stroke along her sex through the cotton of her pajamas from behind. 

“You are,” he replies and she rocks herself back towards his hand. His lips lock with hers again, and his hands make their way beneath the fabric. They stroke lightly, tentatively at first until she starts moaning and trying to increase the friction and then she realizes it’s teasingly. His lips dance along her neck, her collarbone, her hairline while her breathing gets more and more ragged, while he plays her like an instrument, strumming at her like she’s—

The guitar she’d seen him playing during t’filah.

And she’s shuddering and gasping, too confused by the combination of that thought and the orgasm to really know what’s happening until it’s over, her chest pressed to Ben’s, her head resting on his shoulder, her body released and relaxed. 

They sit like that for a long while. There’s no one around to disturb them. The shul staff won’t get there for another few hours. Everything is still, and perfect.

Then Ben sneezes. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and Rey laughs and climbs off him.

“Let’s find you some medicine,” she says and her stomach grumbles.

“Let’s get you something to eat,” he replies evenly, getting to his feet and pressing his lips to hers once again.


End file.
